


Birthday Boy

by DickBaggins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Butt Plugs, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Sibling Incest, Stripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 05:12:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5079130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DickBaggins/pseuds/DickBaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean turns 27; Sam gives him a perfect day, a lap dance, and his ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthday Boy

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my beloved amazing incredible fiancé Xander on the occasion of his birthday.

Dean never expects much for his birthday. It was different when they were kids; Sam got more excited about it than he did, stretching the celebrations out for a week of hand-made, newspaper-wrapped presents. Little things like pretty rocks, loose action figures, stapled together pictures of the two of them drawn in Sam's excited but precise childish scrawl. And then they grew and Sam's first try at baking was to make Dean a cake from a box but the motel oven was spotty and it came out underdone. Dean loved it anyway. They usually didn't have a proper oven after that, so the batter sufficed. And then, when Dean turned 20, he got a lap dance instead. Same for 21, 22.

Takes more than three years for a tradition though.

Ticking over to 27, Dean wakes up forgetful in an empty bed, squinting despite blackout curtains, scrubbing a hand over his scrunched up face. Bathroom door stands open and dark, kitchenette untouched and still littered with beer bottles and a laughable amount of mickeys. They ran out of credit cards and even Sam's giant limbs can't hide anything bigger than that, but last night Dean learned Sam was just as crafty as he remembered while he filled his pockets.

Sam's gone right now though. Just an hour before noon and he's gone and it could have been anytime between dawn and present. Well, whatever. Dean showers hot and long, remembering while he's shampooing that it's his birthday. He runs out the hot water after that, the bathroom awash of steam and his own low quiet humming. Mostly tuneless. Day seven not shaving. It's still patchy and not really a beard but Dean likes it. He wonders if Sam does.

Sam slips in over the shower and startles Dean just by being there at the table. Dean grins and warms completely. Melts even. There's a coffee and a tray of cupcakes on the table and he can't resist sitting down with a towel around his waist and one on his head and diving in. Chocolate first.

“And I Irished up your coffee,” Sam tells him, smiling over his disposable cup. It's the good kind, the slightly fancier kind.

Dean kind of feels like a prince.

At Dean's leisure, Sam takes him to a shooting range. They haven't done this in a very, very long time on any kind of professional level since they found each other again. Dean has to lie about the pleasant buzz he's had since breakfast but he also leaves a fake ID to rent the safety gear he abhors so what's one or a dozen more lies? Sam does better at the perfect indoor targets, presenting the news with a conciliatory face that makes Dean laugh. It's too goddamn cute and in the lobby of the place, he slings his arms around Sam's shoulders and kisses the side of his head, walks them out like that.

“You line up some cans on a fence and you know I'd whoop you. Plus, those glasses were pinchin' my nose. I hate that shit.” He plays grumpy and Sam knows, isn't offended in the least. Sam drives, since Dean's tucked halfway into his flask by the time they even get to the car. He's lazy and pink-cheeked when they slide into the diner for a late lunch. Dean can't decide between pancakes and a burger so they get one of each and split it, eat off each other's plates and forks, snatch at bacon and pickles like it's a game.

Dean gets a whole pie to take home, cradling it in his lap, watching Sam drive. He can't admit how much he likes seeing Sam behind the wheel now, big and capable and slightly badass. It's the _bigness_ that usually gets Dean, the fill of shoulders under his layers and the surprise of his cut chest, his whole body wearing more easily than the scrawny Sam he let go. It's a miracle he's even here after all those other birthdays without. This is the only part of his life Dean considers lucky. It's basically a jackpot and on other days, he questions if he's deserving, at all. Not today.

“Y'know, this has already been like, the best grown up birthday,” Dean says, still staring at Sam with the dusk building behind him.

“Good. Still early though.”

“That it is,” Dean salutes him with the flask, warm from being jammed against him all day but just now empty, right after this last mouthful-and-a-half. Sam turns his head to smirk and it lights up Dean's entire world, makes his own smile go off kilter. “Jesus,” Dean mutters and very nearly chases it with _I love you_ but manages to reign in it with an itchy throat. Couple more drinks and it would've spilled out, he's sure.

Once they're back at the motel, Dean gets clear instructions while he pours a few fingers for each of them; _sit_ and _wait_. Ostensibly in the chair Sam's dragged into the middle of the room, everything else pushed back. Dean mocks a salute, watches him disappear into the bathroom with a duffel bag and a rushed sort of air and the drink Dean poured him.

Dean sits, drinks, tries not to consider this was how the _other_ lap dances went; rearranged furniture, liquid courage and the flush of Sam's embarrassed-excited face. By 20, Dean had had professional girls writhing in his lap, but after that birthday, Sam eclipsed every one of those sparkle-soaked instances. The first time was trepidacious and lip-biting and half-closed eyes and soaked jeans. Still a spank-bank go to. Despite the puppy shyness. A little because of it. You didn't get doe eyes like that in a club, not for reals.

Dean's somewhat locked in the hazy compilation, the strip club in his mind populated entirely by Sam, when the bathroom door creaks and the light pops off. Dean cranes to look but Sam's already slipped from the door. It's all he can do with his just-drunk reflexes to follow the big shape and his neck cranes up and up past the shirtlessness to Sam hovering over him. Shy puppy smiles, floppy hair looking down. If it all stops there, this is still the most amazing birthday, just for that, that look, for Sam already slightly flustered and beautiful.

“I don't know if you remember,” Sam starts, tongue poking out nervously while Dean chases it with his eyes, marking the wet trail it leaves on his brother's deep pink lips, so distracting Dean barely hears what he says. “But, uh, I kinda thought you might, so - “

“I remember,” Dean huffs, already shifting in his seat, his dick already filing up, “Kinda read my mind, actually.”

“Good,” Sam says, looks like he really, really means it. He grabs at Dean's glass and tips it up against his mouth, makes him finish. Not like Dean's protesting. Sam turns, walks the glass into the kitchen and Dean notices the tiny, _tiny_ black shorts clinging to Sam's narrow hips.

Like, really tiny, exposing the delicate dip in his lower back and when he turns back around, the sharp channels of his inguinal muscles. Big thighs pushing up the tight material on his legs and by time he turns some music on, something dark with a deep beat, Dean’s on the edge of the fucking chair waiting, drawn in when Sam stops in front of him.

“Relax,” Sam says, like it’s that easy, planting his big palm in the center of Dean’s chest. He shoves and Dean lets himself thud back against the chair, mouth half-open.

“Don’t prance around here like a showgirl and then tell me to relax.” Dean reaches out for one of those long thighs, curling his hand around it and grunting in satisfaction, only to have Sam grab his wrist and move it. Dean lets him again, offers no fight but his brother is way too strong even when he’s not trying. It’s scary hot.

“No touching, remember?”

Dean _does_ , rolls his eyes but dutifully holds his hands out palms first, eyeing Sam mournfully up and down. He wants to touch, and it’s his fucking birthday so there’s a good argument if he decides to make it. “What if I pay extra? Little under the table deal? And then maybe we can go back to my car, huh? Got a real big backseat. What did you say your name was again?” Dean smirks. The joke never lands.

Sam settles gently on Dean’s lap, wraps both arms around his neck and snakes up into his hair and he’s got this quiet kinda smile on his lips, his eyes half-lidded. “Name’s Sammy,” he says in the second before his hips pick up the music, rocking against Dean in smooth waves, lazy and unconcerned. “You’ve got the prettiest eyes, y’know. I was hoping you’d want a dance.”

Dean swallows, fists balling, caught between the arms of the chair and his legs, pressing against the rough fabric. Sam leans back a bit and makes this little noise when he moves harder against Dean, brushing against the firm bulge in his pants. “Want more than a dance, sweetheart.”

“Is that right?” Sam’s little smile widens, eyes still downcast, almost demure on Dean. He grabs one of Dean’s hands and drags it down his chest, makes that horrible hot noise again, like he’s surprised at being turned on and it has to be an utter show but Dean is falling for the whole thing.

Dean grabs what he can with Sam leading his hand. He’s warm under Dean’s fingertips, heart jackhammering in his chest and that’s good, really good. Dean tries to force his hand lower but Sam’s too good, pulling it away by the wrist, allowing to Dean latching onto his hip just above the waistband of his shorts. Dean digs in with a growl but obeys, mostly, letting Sam control all the movements of his busy hips while he just enjoys the ride.

“So what do you want to do to me?” Sam asks after a few moments of music and heavy breathing and soft fabric rustles.

Dean chuckles low, bites his bottom lip between his teeth until it hurts. What doesn’t he want to do? What a fucking loaded question. But they’re playing at strip club and he can go right along. “Maybe turn around and I’ll tell you, huh?”

Sam misses nothing, smile stretching across his face. “Oh, you like my ass?”

“Yeah, c’mon, lemme see it.”

Sam rises and spins with the music, kind of showy, actually. Kind of like he’s done it more than just a few times for Dean but that train of thought derails when Sam bends over right in front of him, so deep his palms go flat on the floor. It’s a nice view but it’s better when he pops up and starts swaying back until it’s inches from Dean’s face. He wants to rip the shorts off with his fingers or his teeth, contemplating breaking the rules so fucking hard. But then Sam lowers into his lap, grabs Dean's hand to wind around his waist and starts brushing his pert little ass against Dean’s crotch like he really wants to ride it.

“Said you’d tell me,” Sam turns his head, actually pouting.

Dean hisses because it’s like fire, the way Sam looks at him, the way his back feels against Dean’s chest, the muscles shifting and working hard under his arm. “What good’s telling you when I could just show you, Sammy? Wanna get you outta these shorts so you can ride my dick, for starters.”

Sam’s hips stutter a bit, push down hard and it makes Dean rock up against the plush warmth, makes his breath hitch and his heart pound in his ears.

They’ve done pretty much everything, but they haven’t done _that_ again, not since Sam blew for college and it’s so fucking fortuitous that they’re even together again that Dean doesn’t want to push, hasn’t brought it up because he didn’t _know_ and didn’t want to presume and he’s kind of been busy getting plowed himself, constantly surprised by how much he likes it, how much _more_ he likes it now that Sam’s overgrown.

But Sam's reaction, that’s good. Real good.

“Want that?” Dean dares, craning his neck so he’s breathing against Sam’s ear, “Feels like you want it, Sammy. Or do you do this little show for all the boys?”

Sam regains composure faster than Dean would like, winding one arm back around Dean's neck, ignoring the question, humming softly. Dean stares down the long beautiful line of his brother's body, undulating in his lap. The tiny shorts do nothing to hide how hard he is, which is ridiculously satisfying to see but immediately not enough.

“Sure there's nothing I can't touch?” Dean asks, low, his hand grabbing Sam's waist, digging into the hard smooth skin on his side. “Won't tell anyone, Sammy, won't get you in trouble. Just lemme touch, just a bit.” And there's this place behind Sam's ear he can't ever resist, rules be damned, this soft patch of skin that his hair curls against and Dean has to press his lips against it, licking up the faint sheen of sweat.

Sam chokes out a noise that's all animal, that Dean feels down to his bones, and between the dirty talk and the grinding and everything else, _something_ stuck. Sam grabs his hand and slides it down his taut stomach, beelines for his even harder dick. Dean grabs it with a content groan, rolling his palm against the hard length and pushing it up towards the waistband. Just the head nudges out, dark and dripping and Dean swears loud.

“Really liking this, huh?” He drags his palm up the length, throbbing in a pulse like the down beat music, like Sam's hitching breaths. He's always sensitive but this is ridiculous.

Sam twists off him though but spins right back on, facing Dean, long fingers scratching his scalp while he sinks down and kisses him. He's got that desperate edge Dean loves, all tongue and teeth and the prettiest little noises, tasting like whiskey and coffee at the same time.

Dean’s still mostly obeying the rules even if they’ve abandoned the pretenses, just the one hand on Sam’s dick, where he left it. He's briefly distracted by the kiss, by Sam's tight little body dry-humping him over his jeans, doesn’t register Sam’s hand gripping his free one and pushing it down the back of his shorts until his fingertips are already gliding over the soft skin there. Dean's eyes open wide and he doesn't wait, can't, pressing two fingers down the crease and then - whoa. _Whoa._ He bumps against something smooth and warm and Sam makes a strangled little nose, dropping his head against Dean's shoulder.

“Jeez, Sammy,” Dean mutters, drumming his fingers over what he assumes is the base of a plug, nudging at it just slightly. Sam's whole body jerks forward and Dean growls his want, the best way he can really express that right now. “Got yourself all ready for me, huh?” A little nudge again and Sam groans. “So that's why you're all messy. Makes sense. Been awhile.”

Sam, seemingly, can't even answer, still buried against Dean’s shoulder, hair draping, tickling at Dean’s face but it’s barely even an annoyance. Sam's kind of draped on him everywhere, arms and legs, his body crashing against Dean's while Dean grips at his dick through the shorts, rubbing up and down slow, firm. Kind of demanding. Sam moves with him, back and forth, ceaseless and stuttering.

“Wait, wait,” Sam only half-raises his head, side of his face against Dean's so he can feel his face screwed up tight. “Gotta stop, Dean, I’m like...it’s like...god, Dean.”

Dean loves Sam undone though.

“Why, are you gonna blow already?” Dean kind-of-sort-of teases, voice low and gravelly with an amused edge. He presses harder with both hands and Sam nearly jumps against him, nodding tense and whining and the noise jumps straight to Dean's own dick, almost painful hard against denim. “Good,” Dean croons at Sam, manoeuvring so they’re forehead-pressed together, hot breath pouring between their mouths.

“Wanna wait,” Sam huffs, but he can't stop moving either, “Wanna wait for you to fuck me.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, “But it's my birthday, and I _really_ wanna see you come in your pants, Sammy.”

Sam’s shuddering the second after Dean says it, furiously out of time with the music. Dean's almost ceased hearing it anyway, since Sam against his mouth is better and then inside his mouth when Dean presses them together again, licking inside and twisting his tongue deep around Sam’s. Their mouths are mirrors, unending and crashing back against each other ceaselessly and, Dean knows better than anyone, the surest way to get Sam to cream those little shorts.

The song switches to something darker and heavier and Sam's whining on Dean’s tongue and he’s swallowing it all, sucking down Sam’s noises and rubbing him hard through those soft, smooth shorts. He knows what it sounds like when Sam’s close, knows it like second nature and he can taste it on his tongue in the hard breath, the loud groan, the tiny whispery explosions. There's the clench of Sam's ass too, he can feel it around the base of the plug, making it shift and jump against his fingers.

And, of course, there's the hot stickiness of Sam's load dripping back down his stomach from where he shot up on himself, falling onto Dean's hand in a slow cascade. Dean swallows all the oversensitive hitches of his breath, revels in every little noise, especially the surprised gasp when Dean pushes up off the chair, staggering to the bed with no time to balance the ridiculous weight of Sam on him. But Sam helps, his long legs wrapping around Dean’s waist, thick muscles tightening around him. He's so much stronger than he used to be. But Dean can still do this, can at least press him down into the bed even if he can't quite push him up against walls and doors anymore. The wrap of his legs is still there, still familiar, still hot and tight even if he is so much bigger.

There's just more of Sam to drown in now, that's all.

Dean's quick tugging off the shorts and Sam's still writhing and panting, still hard when Dean pushes his legs up onto his chest. This is the first he's seen of the plug, pretty sky blue against Sam's skin and he traces his fingers around the base again, gently tugging and admiring the stretch. It isn't very big but it's enough, ridged so Sam makes the most beautiful noises when Dean pulls it all the way out. Immediately, he sinks his finger in, undoes his pants at the same time because his dick absolutely aches by now, and the hot, slick feeling of Sam swallowing up his finger makes it worse. He's still sensitive, always tight as fuck and perfectly preemptive; he's dripping lube like he's going to be dripping jizz later, if Dean gets his way.

But still, Dean asks, “D’you need more? More anything?” while he's draping over Sam, gripping his dick and rubbing it against Sam's ass, against the press of his finger inside and into the mess of lube.

Sam's answer is a hand gripping Dean's face, fingers biting in, his body rocking hard, hair fanned out behind him and flipped at odd angles. Face so earnest and eyes trained so dark and wanting on Dean that it fucking stops his heart for a full minute, he swears. He kisses Sam again and again, not letting up even when he pushes at Sam's hole with his dick. Sam clenches tight, tries to relax but he's always so sensitive for anything in his ass. Dean's always loved it.

Dean's slow just to hear Sam beg, to watch the colour rise in his cheeks and flush his chest and his neck and Dean feels his own face heating up similarly, everything hot and getting hotter. Dean bottoms out and stays, soaks in Sam's warmth until he wants to fucking cry about it, until Sam's had enough, clutching harder at his face, winding him up in his legs again.

“Yeah, yeah, ‘s alright, Sammy,” Dean's babbling, drawing out slow and savouring this grown up Sam body wrapping around him, pulling him back in vice-tight. Dean wants to say more but can’t seem to stop kissing Sam, magnet-drawn to his mouth and his tongue. The noises sound better from the inside out, somehow. That need makes the fucking inelegant and fast, imprecise but it’s been too long since Dean’s been inside like this that he doesn’t care.

They’re both so jacked up anyway, it’s not going to last; Dean’s still just barely drunk, just enough that everything is still good and not yet numb and Sam can’t stop making noise against his mouth, his dick still hard and languishing in the mess on his stomach. Dean’s hand is still sticky too, when he shoves between them to grab at his brother’s cock.

The next song’s just floating up, tacky hard drums and thudding bass that Dean feels in his chest, just starting when he’s driving to the edge. All they've said for five minutes is each other's names because there's nothing else and they're mostly still kissing anyway. Dean only slides away from Sam's tongue because he means to tell him he's coming, only he goes off so fast, halfway out of Sam’s ass so the drive in is goddamned _sharp_ and wetter, hotter and just the sweetest tightest thing Dean’s been in. So all that spills out of his mouth is a choked-off groan and a wheezing breath of his brother's name while he empties in as deep as he can.

Sam feels it, arches up against his brother while he pulls him back down, thrusts back into his mouth tongue-first. Dean’s still fucking him, messy and slow and obscenely noisy. He wants Sam coming again, kind of suddenly wants to wring him dry.

And it _is_ his birthday.

Dean has to twist out of Sam’s strong grasp to jam between his legs while Sam stares down wildly, groaningly protesting until Dean shuts him up with two fingers in his sloppy hole and his mouth on his balls. Sort of shuts him up; Sam’s still moaning like crazy but it's an improvement. Dean licks up his dick in wide strokes, jumpy under his tongue, still dotted with the jizz from before and fresh precome too, copious as ever around Sam’s head, on his stomach. Dean cleans all that up eagerly and smoothly swallows down Sam’s dick chasing more.

Dean knows he’s good, done it so many times before; he knows to relax and let Sam pump in those last few inches until he’s pressed flat against him, knows the right twist of his fingers in his brother’s ass to get him to shoot down his throat a few seconds later. There’s minimal noise but Dean choking; Sam just digs at his scalp and Dean watches with watery eyes while his abs clench up crazy tight, his big arms flexing and grabbing him in a way he’d never let anyone else get away with.

This is all for Sam; _he_ is all for Sam.

He might be suffocating a little but it’s worth it.

Dean’s light-headed and starry-eyed when he pops off Sam’s dick. He has to drag his tongue around it again, down and up just once, twice, half a dozen more times. On his way back up, he collides with Sam’s forehead and gets shoved onto his back, gets stripped of his t-shirt and rubbed up on by his sweaty brother, humming contentedly and puppy-nuzzling him everywhere he can until he tucks under Dean’s chin.

One of them should say _happy birthday_ or _something_ but there’s still nothing. Dean mutters, “Jesus, Sammy,” and leaves it at that for now. Sam grins up at him, laughs breathlessly. Dean knows they could both just stay there forever and goddamn everything for not giving them the option.

In a minute or an hour, Sam’s up. Dean doesn’t pay attention, kicking his pants off because the rest of this birthday is going to be naked and that is a fact. The music changes to more Dean-friendly stuff and Sam follows it up with the paper box of pie and two forks and a bottle of top shelf whiskey, no glasses.

“Wonder if cake goes better with whiskey,” Sam says, out loud but low like it’s a half-formed thought. He’s slumped back against Dean’s chest, casually forking at the pie but mostly drinking, Dean notices.

“Pie goes just fine,” Dean says, noses at Sam’s face until he tilts it up. Pie-sticky, he kisses Sam, licks the whiskey out of his mouth and hums happily. “Sammy goes better.”

Sam wrinkles his nose and grins so bright, all teeth and eyes, just a second before he turns away again. And 27 doesn’t start out too badly, Dean thinks. Not too badly at all.

 

 


End file.
